At Philbin Beach, we’re close. He asks if I want to keep going, and I say yes.
“Come here.” He’s standing on the rubble of rocks under the cliffs. “Give me your hand,” he says, pushing his own against the face. I move in over whale-colored boulders and touch. It’s wet, weeping almost—Spring’s pulse hidden within. I look at him, and he can tell what I’m thinking. “It’s alive,” he says. He runs his finger along a flaky ridge and dabs my forehead yellow. Then his own. There, I think.
It’s cold, but the sun is strong, and he’s talking about moraines and fossils, the Ice Age and clay. I smile and press my back against a dry patch of cliff and listen. What’s a moraine, I ask, and he tells me. It’s the end place, the farthest reach of ice, the finish of advance and retreat. He points to a round, banded rock rising from the water. It could be from Vermont—even Canada—dragged here as the ice scraped south thousands and thousands of years ago, carrying sediment and till. And in the cliffs—pieces of ancient whale and shark, a polished tooth, a rib, a jaw, a shard of wild horse, a wisp of camel. When he was younger, he used to come here with friends, and they’d strip down and paint their bodies with the clay. Warriors.
I look at him—his face is shining—and stretch my arm across the crumbling rock to find him. The words fall over me. I let them. The stories the bones tell. The life that was here.
I have a dream about John. It’s one I’ve had for years. At first after he died, it came all at once, for days in a row, but now it’s less frequent. It’s always on a beach at dusk——the light low, the colored sky deepening. It could be Montauk, where I’m writing this book, or Zack’s Beach on the Vineyard, or the great wide swath at Cumberland, or even California. But there are cliffs in the dream, red cliffs. Like in the tale he told when he first took me to Gay Head Lighthouse. Red from Moshup’s whales. Black from the soot of his fires.
I look up. He’s there—coming toward me, hands pushed in his pockets, grinning so wild it makes me laugh. “How are you here?” I keep saying. “How are you here?” He doesn’t answer. He looks at me, proud to have come this far.
Better not waste time. I know from before that I don’t have long. I think he can’t touch me, but he does and he’s warm. We sit together on the sand and watch the water. And next to him, in the dream, I feel I am most like myself. Then we walk fast and talk fast. All the things only that person can know. I point to a small boulder down the beach. “When we reach that rock, you will leave me,” I say. As if it is too much, too selfish to have him this long, and I don’t want any surprises. I tell him how my life has been, things he may not know, secrets. But he knows everything. “What my friends tell me,” he says, and we leave it at that.
When we’re close to the rock, I turn to ask him something. But he’s gone, already in the water. I see his back, a long lean dive breaking the surface of gray-green. “Hey—come back,” I shout. “Goodbye, you didn’t say goodbye.” Sometimes I yell, angry, “You forgot to say goodbye!” Then I laugh; it’s just like him. But after a while, when the trail through the water disappears, I just stand there.
I don’t know when, I tell myself in the dream, but he will come back when I least expect it, and it will be on a beach like this one.
From the shallows, Moshup watches. In legend, he watches his children and, to keep them free, turns them into sharks. I believe he watches John. And he watches the girl, he sees the girl. But if you were looking, you would see a woman alone on an empty beach, heavier than she once was, speaking to the waves as if they hear her.
The next day, we leave, and whatever spell’s between us is still there. It’s been seven months since August, since we did the play. Seven months since we met near the Ramble and the words fell between us and we began.
I put it off—the weekend away—wary that the curious alchemy of mystery and knowing might dissolve with four days in a row. But it hasn’t. It’s stronger. And like thick black ice, I begin to trust that it will hold me.
“I have a surprise for you,” he says over breakfast. We’d flown up commercial, but he tells me he’s chartered a plane back, and now we have more time. Over the years, he will say this when he does what pleases him. A surprise for you. And for a long time, I will find it charming. Like when he orders three breakfasts and tells the waiter two are for me.
The pilot greets us at the shingled terminal and drives us to the plane in a cart. It feels glamorous. “You’re lucky,” the pilot says. “Gonna be a great sunset. Clear skies all the way to New York.” It’s a single-engine Cessna with three passenger seats. Blue-winged, with a striped nose. The pilot checks wheels, pressure, flaps, gauges, and John follows him around the plane. He’s had lessons before, and they talk shop.
When they’re done, the pilot pulls me up the wing into the tilted plane, then John. Something breaks. I reach inside the pocket of my coat; there’s his stone and pieces of a scallop shell I found near the cliffs the day before. We buckle in and the tower clears us. I’ve never been in a plane so small, and he holds my hand for takeoff. His face—all of him—it’s eager. Once we’re up, he gives me the headphones. I listen for a moment to the monotone jumble of numbers and letters and codes I know fascinate him, then hand them back.
I’m entranced by the shapes from above—the coves and cliffs and ponds, the yellow borders of beach against the deep dark sea. I try to memorize and tuck them away like my life depends on it: I must have this snapshot of now. The pilot was right—the sky’s clear, only a thin bank of violet at the horizon. The din in the cabin is a dull roar—like you’re underwater. We can’t hear each other and speak in an amalgam of excited gestures and facial expressions. Below, there’s Gay Head and the empty islands we saw the day before from the cliffs—only now, from the sky, they’re complete. Naushon, Nashawena, Pasque. I say the names to myself to remember. In case this is the last time. In case it’s all we have. Just then the sun drops and floods the plane with ruddy light. Look! He lets go of my hand. He wants me to see.
The camel coat’s on my shoulders. The sky’s shot with red. And there’s something I’ve never seen. Small lines—the creases at his eyes, when he’s happy, when he’s smiling. Like bird wings.
Acknowledgments
First: Without the love and encouragement of Jennie Moreau, Fredrika Brillembourg, and Mia Dillon, this book would not have been written. They knew that going back would not be easy, and like many of my friends, they had faith when I faltered. They persuaded me to tell my story and reminded me of the heart when I veered away. In addition, I have endless gratitude for Elizabeth Auran and Tom Diggs, who read so kindly, so carefully, and then shed light. And for Bernadette Haag Clarke and Rebecca Boyd, who knew, and always said, “Keep going!”
Profound thanks to Gary Murphy and Kirk Stambler for their counsel and keen insights; Paulette Bartlett, Rachel Resnick, and Erin Cressida Wilson for their thoughtful reads and good advice; Asaad Kelada, Arye Gross, Cordelia Richards, Daniel McDonald, and Andrew Haag for braving early drafts. And to Lynne Weinstein for her beautiful photographs and her friendship.
Heartfelt thanks to my agent, Suzanne Gluck, whose steadfast belief in my story and whose guidance at every turn have proven invaluable. And to her assistant, Caroline Donofrio, who answered my questions with cheerfulness and clarity. I am enormously grateful to the fabulous Julie Grau and the superb team at Spiegel & Grau: Sally Marvin, Avideh Bashirrad, Erika Greber, Richard Elman, Dana Leigh Blanchette, Greg Mollica. And to Evan Gaffney. Special thanks are due to Hana Landes, who kept things running smoothly, and to Dennis Ambrose, whose patience and good humor during the copyediting process meant so much.
For beginnings, I will always be grateful to Mary Jemail and Mary de Kay, my inspired eighth and tenth grade English teachers; and to Will Scheffer, Lisa Glatt, and the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program. And for the beginnings of the book to playwright and actor George Furth—he badgered until I began. A big thank you to Lainey Papageorge, who provided prayers and made a cherished return possi
ble, and to Roger Miller for Daruma.
For keeping a place at their table and, when I needed it, generously offering a quiet room to write in, I must thank Matt O’Grady and John Shaka, Matthew Sullivan and Harriet Harris, Victoria Tennant, Keir Dullea, and Jason La Padura. Your friendship and love have meant so much. Thanks also to Jonathan and Helena Stuart for providing a glittering view of the sea for several crucial weeks.
For tireless help with facts and for sharing their memories, I am indebted to Anne Korkeakivi, Tom Dunlop, Tim Monich, Laurence Maslon, Spencer Beckwith, Billy Straus, Robin Saex Garbose, Lisa Curtis, Stephanie Venditto, Katherine Swett, Sarah Miller, Susan Burke, and especially, the quicksilver Ultan Guilfoyle, who responded to each and every one of my emails, no matter how trifling. Cumberland Island: A History by Mary R. Bullard and Convent of the Sacred Heart: A History in New York City by Timothy T. Noonan were books that inspired memories of my own, and I am grateful to the authors.
Many thanks for the kindnesses of Mikel and Margaret Dunham, Karen Watson, Laney Fichera, Lynn Blumenfeld, G. Marq and Karen Roswell, Robert Haag, Elizabeth Reed, Jessica Queller, Kari Catalano, Adam Green and Elizabeth Fasolino, Stephen DiCarmine, Bob Morris, Samantha Dunn, Richard and Louise Paul, Elyn Saks, Jennifer Fraser, Christopher Clarke, Karen Balliet, Robert Levithan, Debby Stover, Diana Berry, Spencer Garrett, and my manager, Christopher Wright, who has always shown patience and support. I would also like to thank Mujah Maraini-Melehi, who made a respite happen, and Donald Antrim, whose honest words at the right time meant a great deal.
I am deeply appreciative of the Monday Night Writers Group, especially for the support of Sara Pratter, Kathleen Dennehy, and Fielding Edlow; the John Jermain Library; and the communities of Montauk and Sag Harbor, New York, which provided the welcome, seclusion, and peace I needed to complete the book.
To Father Daniel and the monks at the Hermitage: The gifts I received on the hill remain. To the nuns at Sacred Heart who encouraged us to keep journals: I listened, and years later found I had boxes full.
Finally, I would like to thank my brilliant editor and friend, Cindy Spiegel. I am humbled by your gifts. When we met again in 2006, I sensed we shared a vision. Now I know this to be abundantly true. As you once said, this was meant.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHRISTINA HAAG is an actress who divides her time between New York City and Los Angeles. She is a graduate of Brown University and the Juilliard School.
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